Sovereign's War

by Debbie Viguié

  He forced himself to smile again.

  “You would honor me,” he said, bowing his head.

  “Excellent. My steward will show you to your rooms where you can get freshened up,” the king said. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  Robin bowed and so did Much. They then turned and followed the steward from the room. As he showed them to a bedchamber Robin kept his eyes moving, taking in every detail of the halls they passed through. There were fewer servants walking the halls than there were at King Richard’s castle, even after John had occupied it. With any luck that also meant fewer spies, although he couldn’t put it past the king to have demon helpers. He and Much weren’t going to be able to let their guards down for even a minute.

  * * *

  Alan was deeply shaken from the vision and his fall out of the tree. Nothing about the ambush had gone as planned, and they were all very lucky to have escaped with their lives.

  He tried to clear his mind. Always he’d had more control over his own thoughts than other men, able to organize them, study them objectively, and come to rational conclusions. His memories were sacrosanct and crystal clear, which was a blessing as a bard and a curse as a man.

  He couldn’t deny, though, that something had crawled its way inside his mind to show him the destruction of that village. It was probably the same something that had bitten him in the leg, causing him to lose his balance and fall. What had seemed like a long, tortuous vision must have occurred in an instant.

  While Marian and Friar Tuck made haste planting the gold in the network of caves, he rested outside. Rolling his pant leg up, he found the bite mark left by the demon—for that had to be what it was. The wound was red and swelling quickly. It also itched worse than being scratched by a cat. He was going to need to put a poultice on it to stop the swelling and draw the poison out. The plants he needed for that were in Sherwood, though, so he’d just have to grit his teeth and bear it until they could get back there.

  He prayed that their ruse worked, and it fooled the Sheriff into thinking that the Hood had changed his lair. He had his doubts, but they were clinging to straws these days, doing what they could to survive until help might arrive.

  Two thirds of the tax money would remain here in the caves. It needed to look as if this was where the outlaw was hiding his loot before it could be redistributed. He had suggested that they also needed to bring some food and weapons, if they wanted to make the caves seem like a believable hideout. They would do so on their next trip. He thought it a mistake to wait but understood the difficulty they would have had in bringing those things with them this time.

  Everything about this plan was difficult. Will had sacrificed himself to distract the Sheriff and the Prince from trying to find the Hood. Now they needed the Hood to distract the Sheriff from his plans to invade Sherwood. It was all a mess.

  Marian and Friar Tuck reemerged from the caves looking satisfied. The three of them got back on their horses and, carefully obscuring their tracks, began their journey back to Sherwood. Alan resisted the urge to scratch at the bite. After all, it would only make it worse.

  * * *

  At the appointed hour Robin and Much made their way downstairs. They’d both done what they could to steel themselves against whatever horrors might await them at the king’s table. Robin could feel the time growing short. They needed to free King Richard before his father and Old Soldier set free the soldiers.

  When he entered the banquet hall, he was surprised to notice that the table was set for a far smaller number than he would have anticipated. A steward appeared the moment they stepped through the doors, and he led Robin to a seat toward the head of the table. Much moved to take his place where servants would eat.

  “It looks like a more intimate gathering,” Robin said.

  The steward nodded but didn’t respond. Robin realized he hadn’t actually heard the man say a word yet. It was possible he was mute. It was even more possible that he’d learned that keeping his mouth shut was safer, when serving a king such as Wulfhere.

  Taking his seat, Robin wondered how long they’d have to wait before the king arrived. As it was it was only a minute or two. He rose to his feet as the king entered, accompanied by two guards, and then sat again after the man had taken his place at the head of the table.

  Robin glanced across to where there was an empty seat facing him. It seemed in poor taste to show up later than the king. Wulfhere seemed jovial, however, if it could be called that.

  “Before we bring out the food, I thought we should welcome our other guest this evening,” he said, a wolfish smile in place. All at once Robin’s skin felt like it was beginning to crawl. He wondered if, like John, the king had a pet demon that he liked to keep around.

  “And who would that be?” he asked, struggling to keep his tone light.

  “Actually, I think you will find this rather amusing. It’s one of your own countrymen—someone who seemed most eager to see you again when I told him you were here.”

  Robin’s blood ran cold. Had a messenger from the Sheriff beaten him here, with news of John’s death? Or if it were someone from England who knew Locksley, they would instantly expose him as an imposter. Despite his fears, he kept his composure.

  “How unexpected,” he said simply.

  Then he glanced down the table toward Much, who had to have heard. The young man’s face had gone completely white, and he had his hands clenched on the table. Robin was armed with only a sword and a dagger. Much had a dagger hidden inside his tunic. The table had dishes but no cutlery, nothing that could be used to attack. If they had to fight their way out, they’d be woefully overmatched.

  Robin turned back to the king.

  “So, who is this… admirer?” he asked, leaning again on the arrogance of the role. King Wulfhere laughed as if Robin had just made a great joke.

  “I’m not so sure that he’s an admirer, at least not these days,” he said enthusiastically. “He did have an awful lot to say about you, though, and I could tell that perhaps he has a score to settle.”

  Robin began to sweat, despite the cold and damp of the room. Had Wulfhere already decided that he was an imposter? If so, his cunning ruse would come to an end in a spectacular fashion. He glanced quickly around the room again, looking for guards and servants. Again, there were fewer than he would have expected.

  Taking a deep breath, he surreptitiously wrapped his hand around the handle of his dagger. Maybe he could throw it and kill whoever the newcomer was before he could say a word. He might be able to justify it as part of the “score” that needed to be settled. It was a long shot, but it was all he had.

  “I look forward to seeing him,” Robin said, baring his teeth in an effort to smile. Then he heard a door open behind him and he stiffened, knowing he needed to be standing if he had any chance of fighting his way out of this. He stood, swiveled, and began to pull out the dagger.

  The blade was nearly free when he froze.

  Standing there, surrounded by guards, chained, filthy but every bit the lion he had always been, was King Richard.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Robin stared in shock. He had never dreamed King Wulfhere would do such a thing. Richard stared at him, as well, but kept all emotion from his face.

  “Richard, what a surprise to see you again,” Robin forced himself to say, sneering to the best of his ability. “I trust you’ve been enjoying your stay here.”

  King Richard hesitated for a moment and Robin held his breath.

  “I’ve known you to be a lot of things, Locksley,” Richard growled, “but I had to see for myself that you had turned traitor.”

  It took all of Robin’s control not to drop in relief when Richard called him that. He could read the curiosity in the man’s eyes, but it was guarded. He couldn’t be sure what Robin intended, but he was giving him the benefit of the doubt. For that Robin was immeasurably grateful.

  Pushing back his chair, he strode up to Richard, eyeing him carefully.


  The king looked tired, but aside from the filth he seemed uninjured—at least on the surface. Richard flexed his muscles slightly, rattling the manacles that bound him as he did so. It was a sign of strength, letting Robin know that he was ready to fight and to use the very chains that bound him as weapons, if necessary.

  There were six guards in the room. Four of them were guarding Richard. Aside from those there were the steward, two other servants, and King Wulfhere—who could not be discounted. The man was no wisp of a thronesitter. The door behind Richard was still open, and Robin could see stairs descending downward to what had to be the dungeon.

  Robin gripped his knife tighter as he realized in a flash of insight that they were never going to have a better opportunity. He had no idea what Wulfhere was planning to do next, but instinctively he felt that if he waited to find out, either he or Richard or both of them would end up dead.

  “I have a message from England’s true king,” Robin said.

  “What does that ungrateful whelp have to say for himself?” Richard growled, clearly not having to fake the anger that boiled in his voice. Robin turned his head slightly and snapped his fingers in Much’s direction.

  “Oh, I’m not talking about John. Much, you remember the message the Sheriff gave me?”

  “Yes, sire…” Much hastily scrambled to his feet.

  “Good.” With Much free of the table, they had a fighting chance, even if it was a fool’s chance. Robin turned back, yanked out his dagger, and lunged forward as though he were going to kill Richard. At the last moment he twisted, slashing the dagger across the throat of one of the guards.

  With a roar Richard grabbed the heads of two more and slammed them together, crushing their temples with the manacles around his wrists. Robin stabbed the fourth guard before the man could get a weapon free, hooking him deep in the side, under his ribs where all men are soft. He turned and threw the dagger into the chest of the guard on the other side of the room, while Much threw his companion into a wall.

  The two servants went skittering through the doors, whether to save their own skins or to get reinforcements Robin didn’t know. Either way they were out of time.

  “To the dungeon!” Robin shouted. Much nodded, produced his dagger, and rushed past Robin toward the stairs.

  “Wait!” Richard roared. “There’s no one left down there; it’s a trap!”

  “Then where are the other nobles?” Robin asked.

  * * *

  Something was wrong. Old Soldier could feel it. It was that itch at the base of his left shoulder blade, the one he always got when there was something his brain hadn’t figured out yet.

  The smell of death and blood permeated the air. It would have been expected on the field of battle, but not at a prison. It was too fresh for that. He stopped in his tracks and turned to caution Lord Longstride. It was too late, though. Longstride tripped over something in the dark and went down with a heavy thud. At least he didn’t cry out.

  Cautiously Old Soldier moved over to him. Longstride had tripped over a decapitated body. As he crouched down he could see that there was another one just a foot away. Then he saw a third, then a fourth.

  He helped Lord Longstride back to his feet, then the two men backed away carefully. When they had put some distance between them and the bodies Longstride cupped his hand around Old Soldier’s ear and whispered.

  “The other lords, he’s killed them.”

  * * *

  “I don’t know where they are, but they’re not down there,” King Richard shouted. Robin frowned. It didn’t seem likely the castle had other places to hold prisoners. Perhaps they had been put outside with the soldiers. But why?

  There was a sudden high-pitched whistle, and then soldiers burst out of the dungeon, weapons held high. Robin drew his own sword and did his best to back toward the door that would lead them to freedom. Much and King Richard kept pace with him.

  “I need my sword,” King Richard said.

  “Grab one off a dead guard,” Robin said. Then there was no more time for words as the wave of soldiers crashed against them. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Richard retrieve a blade from one of the fallen guards. With his hands shackled together he would have a hard time wielding it, but at the moment there was nothing to be done.

  Next to him Much was hacking away with his knife at whomever came within arm’s reach of him. For his own part, Robin was coming to an even greater appreciation of the master smith who had made his sword so long ago. He thrust and cut and the sword seemed to sing as he moved faster and faster.

  While the bodies of the soldiers kept hitting the ground, Robin and his companions kept moving steadily backward, blades flashing in the torchlight. King Richard, manacled as he was, was still more than a match for the soldiers who faced him.

  “Robin!” the king shouted.

  “Yes?”

  “Keep fighting.”

  He wondered what on earth Richard thought he was going to do. Before he could say anything, though, the king turned and ran toward a door at the far end of the hall as fast as he could.

  Robin was stunned. He shook his head, trying to rid it of the roiling thoughts and emotions that threatened to distract and consume him. He redoubled his efforts. His shoulder began to ache from the speed with which he was whipping the sword and from the jarring impacts as it collided with steel and bone.

  Much cried out in pain and Robin’s guts twisted inside him as he realized the young man had to have been struck. He moved back faster and Much joined him. Their enemies surged as though thinking that they had gained an advantage.

  He was sweating profusely, and his hand slipped for a moment on the hilt of his sword. A soldier got in under his guard and slashed him across the thigh. Robin hissed, keeping in a shout of pain. He wished he knew how many soldiers were left, but all he could see were those immediately in front of him. He put his sword through the throat of the one who had cut him and then shook the body off his blade and onto the ground.

  He heard Much grunt again and he winced, praying that the wounds he was receiving were superficial. The miller’s son hadn’t survived so much in the last few months, just to die in this godforsaken place.

  “Richard, we need you!” Robin roared.

  He had no idea where his sovereign had gone, but he hoped King Richard could hear him and would return to help them before it was too late. He risked a glance to the far side of the room, but didn’t see his king. He didn’t see the pagan king, either.

  He frowned as he turned back and stabbed another soldier. A feeling crept into his mind then—though he couldn’t identify it.

  I hope Richard knows what he’s doing.

  His foot slipped and he half fell. A sword whistled through the air right where his head had been. He thrust his blade up into the stomach of the man in front of him, then scrambled out of the way as the body fell forward. Robin made it to his feet just in time to fend off a simultaneous attack by two different men. One of them got in a blow which sliced across his cheek. He could feel the skin part and the blood start to spill down to his chin.

  When he had felled both men he glanced up and realized that there were only a few soldiers left. Hope flared brightly for a moment. He lunged forward, intent on ending this so he could find King Richard and the three of them could escape.

  The sense of unease grew.

  Much fell and Robin spun, his sword slashing the throat of the man who was about to bring his sword down on the miller’s son. The soldier fell half on top of the young man, but Robin didn’t have time to stop and help Much up.

  Feeling like a man possessed, he faced off against the remaining guards. The sword seemed to take on a life of its own as he slashed and stabbed his way through them. He had never felt so at one with a blade before. It was almost as if he could hear it singing, crying out for more blood to appease its insatiable appetite.

  Then, suddenly, it was over.

  Robin stood, panting and dripping sweat and blood onto t
he floor as he surveyed the sea of the dead. He looked for only a moment, though, to be sure none were about to rise up and come after him. Then he turned and pushed the dead man off of Much. Reaching down, he helped the young man to stand. Much’s face was pale except for where it was streaked with blood.

  “Are you alright?” Robin asked.

  Much nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “We need to find King Richard,” Robin said, glancing toward the door at the far side of the room. He willed the king to appear there. Richard knew where they were, and it would be easier for him to return than for them to have to go and find him. Robin wondered, too, about the pagan king. If Richard had gone after him, he could be in serious trouble. It had been very difficult to kill Prince John. He could only imagine what it would take to kill this despot.

  “Something’s wrong,” Much whispered.

  Robin felt it, too. It had been growing in his mind the last few minutes and had had nothing to do with the battle they were fighting. He took a step forward, and suddenly he heard screaming in his mind, as though something was trying to keep him from taking another step.

  He glanced again at the fallen bodies of the soldiers. Most had been wearing helms of some sort. He wondered if any among them were demons that would rise again shortly, as did the Sheriff’s fiends.

  “We can’t leave the King,” Robin said out loud, as much for his own benefit as for Much’s. “He’s the reason we’ve come all this way.”

  Behind him Much made a whimpering sound that made Robin’s hair stand on end. He had known the lad a long time, and Much had a heart of oak. He was not frightened easily, if at all.

  “We have to go now,” Much whispered, his voice half-strangled. Robin spun on his heel, but only made it a couple of steps before he realized what was happening. Torches were going out around the room, plunging parts of it into darkness.